The good sweet story of the rebirth of the American cheese industry

In the past decade or so our country’s consumption of top specialty cheeses has soared. In 1986 I first ventured to Europe and was perplexed to discover that many restaurants offered a cheese course for dessert. Cheese — for dessert? To sweet-toothed me, dessert always meant something sweet: an apple tart or chocolate fondant. It didn’t matter whether they called it fromage, queso or formaggio. To me, it just wasn’t dessert.

My hesitation was probably born of my experiences with American cheeses pre-1990 when bland and boring seemed to be the bywords for domestic production. These days my outlook has been altered. And based on the blooming abundance of distinctive cheese menus in restaurants around the city, I’m not the only one who's experienced a change of heart.

The great awakening

Twenty years ago or so Americans first discovered the joys of imported French and Italian cheeses such as brie and parmeggiano. At that time, it seemed difficult to find American-made cheeses that rivaled European counterparts. Since those days, a mushrooming bevy of craft cheese producing artisans have sprung up around the country from unlikely spots such as Louisiana and Indiana to more predictable states such as Vermont and Wisconsin. And the cheeses these Old World craftsman are creating are not just good for American cheeses, but have become considered damn good by international standards.

In the past decade or so our country’s consumption of specialty cheeses has soared. If ever there was a day when a Kraft Single ruled the land, those days are decidedly over.

So what brought Americans — and Chicago area residents, in particular — to this point?

Perhaps one explanation has been the popularity of wine. An excellent match for many cheeses, wine is as good a companion to cheese as chicken is to rosemary, pretzels to mustard and vanilla ice cream to hot fudge sauce. And given that the United States is now the second largest consumer of wine (after France), it only makes sense that we would go from nibblers of cheese to gobblers. Locally speaking, our metropolitan area is the second largest market for wine in the country, so perhaps it’s not surprising that premium cheeses are also to be found in great quantity. Finally, as we shun mass produced food oftentimes marked by inferior quality and unhealthful additives and often linked to environmental degradation, it’s only natural that we would seek something tastier and with more integrity when it comes to cheese.

Midwest is best?

Thankfully for Midwesterners, some of the finest cheeses are created right here. As American’s palates have grown more refined and adventurous, sparking a renewed interest in cheeses, producers in the area — as well as other major sources such as California and Vermont — have stepped up to the, er, cheese plate. Chicago stores and restaurants boast a great abundance and variety of premium and limited-production cheeses. Chicago’s Green City Market grows larger every year, and it seems as if there’s a back-to-the-land movement spawned by small-scale producers who prefer to earn a more modest income while producing award winning, high quality cheeses.

One of the best producers, Roth Käse, is located just across the border in Wisconsin. The company creates award-winning hard cheeses, such as gruyere which is known for its nutty, bold flavor, and many others. As with other small companies like petite Prairie Fruits Farm near Champaign, IL, which creates super-premium goat’s cheese, the products created end up on the tables of some of the finest restaurants in Chicago and elsewhere. And larger, but artisanal producers such as Carr Valley Cheese in LaValle, Wis., distribute their creations at finer grocery stores, specialty food stores, farmers' markets and on-line. Collectively, Wisconsin cheese producers receive the lion’s share of national awards, and for products ranging from traditional cheddar to hard ewes’ milk cheese.

According to Bin 36’s Executive Chef John Caputo, local cheeses "are not only getting better, but also more sophisticated, both in flavor profiles and textures."

"One of my favorite local guys is Tony Hook and the ten-year cheddar he creates. Willi Lehner of Blue Mont Dairy seems to want to experiment with different techniques and methods in his brand new caves. And of course, I love the gruyere style cheese coming from Mike Gingrich at the Uplands Cheese Company."

In the case of Wisconsin’s much-in-demand Pleasant Ridge Reserve, the gruyere-style cheese is produced only in the summer and is featured in four-star restaurants. From one batch to the next, this rare cheese tastes different — but is always considered a masterpiece of culinary art.

Restaurants take a cue

A growing number of restaurants have installed cheese "caves" or refrigerators that store their precious cargo at an optimal temperature and humidity. Spiaggia's cave is one of the largest and probably the first in the city. Eno, at the other end of the Mag Mile, exists for customers to explore the almost magical flavor sensations experienced when pairing cheese and wine. Offering one of the most diverse collections around, the restaurant offers sheep, goat and cow’s cheese with the menu divided into smelly and pungent, triple cream, spicy, blue, hard and Wisconsin award-winners.

Standby Bin 36 offers an astounding 50 cheeses—available individually or as part of themed flights. Cheeses from Dallas, Indiana, Colorado and Louisiana sit inauspiciously beside listings for cheeses from France, Italy and Wisconsin. There are unusual selections here, and a brief but insightful insight into the character of each cheese.

Why all the cheese? According to Caputo, the menu represents "completely unique and totally sophisticated, well-produced cheeses."

Caputo is so devoted to cheese that he’s serving as the ambassador for Wisconsin's Milk Marketing Board for 2008. As if all of the excitement over cheeses in local restaurants were not enough, the American Cheese Society held its 25th anniversary conference in Chicago in July 2008. The fine dairy products juggernaut featured over 1,400 cheeses from around the country vying for coveted awards.

Other restaurants offer extensive cheese menus, including Pops for Champagne, which offers mostly American cheeses, including Cypress Grove and Old Chatham. Sepia, built from an 1890 print shop just west of the Loop, features an unusual, evolving artisan cheese cellar, stocking hard-to-find domestic creations such as Tarentaise from Vermont’s Thistle Hill Farm and Green Hill from Sweet Grass Dairy in Georgia, Berkshire blue from Massachusetts and Feliciana Nevat from Louisiana.

Most restaurants offer pairing suggestions for the cheeses they carry and Ontario-based ice wine producer Inniskillin recommends enjoying its elegant wines with Point Reyes Blue, Capricious goat cheese or Red Hawk from Cowgirl Creamery.

A labor of love

If you balk at the price you might pay for a premium cheese, consider that neither dairy farmers nor cheese producers rank anywhere near the top (or even bottom) of the Forbes richest list. For many, producing flavorful, unique cheeses represents a labor of love. The cheese they create, free of antibiotics, hormones or unnatural feed, tastes different from year to year, dependent upon what flowers and grasses the animals eat.

Artisanal producers, utilizing Old World, craftsman techniques, concentrate on quality over quantity, sometimes raising rarer Jersey cows which yield half the milk of traditional dairy bovines. Milk from Jersey cows produces tastier cheeses, and that, along with the animals’ diet and how they are treated, leads to more flavorful, richer tasting products.

As with the watershed Judgment of Paris in 1976 when American wine first bested French wine in a blind tasting, American cheeses are now winning international tasting competitions. To those who are just discovering the superb flavor and quality of American cheese, a bevy of domestic artisans, farmers and foodies merely ask, "What took you so long?"

Cheesy Does It: Chicagoans Discovering New Cheeses in Record Volume

Twenty or thirty years ago Americans first discovered the joys of imported French and Italian cheeses such as brie and parmeggiano. Since those days, we’ve become increasingly more adventuresome and discriminating, demanding more flavorful, unique cheeses and finding that local establishments—whether restaurant, grocery, or specialty shop—have been happy to oblige us.

In the past decade or so our country’s consumption of specialty cheeses, in particular, has soared. As with other premium foods and beverages, today specialty cheeses are available in greater quality and quantity. If ever there was a day when a Kraft Single ruled the land, those days are decidedly over. These days, you’re as likely to hear a child ask for a piece of brie or buffalo mozzarella as you are Velveeta.

And if children are nibbling milder specialty cheeses, then adults are voraciously consuming pungent blue, nutty aged parmeggiano, creamy goat, and port-drenched cheeses. So what brought Americans—and Chicago area residents, in particular—to this point?

Perhaps one explanation has been the popularity of wine. An excellent match for many cheeses, wine is as good a companion to cheese as chicken is to rosemary, pretzels to mustard and vanilla ice cream to hot fudge sauce. And given that the United States is now the second largest consumer of wine (after France), it only makes sense that we would go from nibblers of cheese to gobblers. Given that Chicago is the second largest market for wine in the country, it’s not surprising that premium cheeses are also to be found in great quantity. In essence, someone got wise and figured out that our metropolitan area would be a good market for cheese, too.

Thankfully for Midwesterners, some of the finest cheeses are created right here in Indiana, Illinois and southern Wisconsin. As American’s palates have grown more refined and adventurous, sparking a renewed interest in cheeses, producers in the area—as well as other major sources such as California and Vermont—have stepped up to the, er, cheese plate.

One of the finest producers, Roth Käse, is located just across the border in southern Wisconsin. This renowned company creates award-winning hard cheeses, such as its gruyere which is known for its nutty, bold flavor, as well as dozens of others. As with other small companies and farms like petite Prairie Fruits Farm near Champaign which creates super-premium goat’s cheese, the dairy products created end up on the tables of some of the finest restaurants in Chicago and elsewhere. And larger, but artisanal producers such as Carr Valley Cheese in LaValle, Wisconsin, distribute their creations at finer grocery stores, specialty food stores and farmer’s markets. Collectively, Wisconsin cheese producers receive the lion’s share of national awards, and for products ranging from traditional cheddar to hard ewes’ milk cheese.

Chicago, with its red-hot restaurant and foodie scene, boasts a great abundance and variety of cheeses, particularly those from the premium and limited production categories. A growing number of restaurants have installed cheese “caves” or refrigerator units that store their precious cargo at an optimal temperature and humidity. Spiaggia’s cave is one of the largest and probably the first in the city. Eno, at the other end of the Mag Mile, exists for customers to explore the almost magical flavor sensations experienced when pairing cheese and wine. Offering one of the most diverse collections around, the restaurant’s menu offers sheep, goat and cow’s cheese with the menu divided into smelly and pungent, triple cream, spicy, blue, hard (such as parmeggiano) and Wisconsin award-winners, among others.

Newcomer Sepia, built from an 1890 print shop, features an unusual artisan cheese cellar, stocking hard-to-find domestic creations such as Berkshire blue from Massachusetts and Feliciana Nevat from Louisiana. In the suburbs, farmer’s markets such as the French Market in Wheaton and others constitute a good source for artisanal cheese—while Whole Foods stores are renowned for their cheese sections. Restaurants, particularly French bistro types, often offer a cheese course as a starter or finishing course.

If you balk at the price you might pay for a premium cheese, consider that neither dairy farmers nor cheese producers rank anywhere near the top (or even bottom) of the Forbes richest list or any other. For many, producing flavorful, unique cheeses represents a labor of love. The cheese they create, free of antibiotics, hormones or unnatural feed, tastes different from year to year, dependent upon what flowers and grasses the animals ate. In the case of much-in-demand Pleasant Ridge Reserve, the gruyere-style cheese is produced only in the summer and is featured in four-star restaurants (as well as Eno). From one batch to the next, this rare cheese tastes different—but is always considered a masterpiece of culinary art.

Many restaurants now indicate the particular farm or cheese producer, identifying the uniqueness and quality of the product. At some restaurants, the cheese crumbled on your baby spinach salad isn’t a mere no-name, bland-flavored food, but the handiwork of an individual or boutique farm that stresses tradition, quality and purity.

Dee Kowalski, owner of the Old World Market in Valparaiso, Indiana, observes that “American producers have really come a long way, making a lot of artisan, small batch cheeses.” At her store she carries premium and organic cheeses from California, Vermont and Wisconsin, noting that what the herds eat—whether cow, goat or sheep—directly affects the quality of the milk. Some of the owner’s and customers’ favorites include Humboldt Fog goat’s cheese from California and Cocoa Cardona, an aged, award winning hard cheese rubbed with cocoa powder.

She attributes the popularity of premium and organic cheeses to their better flavor and higher quality. Artisanal producers, utilizing Old World, craftsman techniques, concentrate on quality over quantity, sometimes raising Jersey cows which yield half the milk of other cows. Milk from Jersey cows, though, produces tastier cheeses, and that, along with the animals’ diet and how they are treated, leads to more flavorful, richer tasting products.

As with the watershed Judgment of Paris in 1976 when American wine first bested French wine in a blind tasting, American cheeses are now winning international tasting competitions. To those who are just discovering the superb flavor and quality of American cheese—or wine, for that matter—a bevy of domestic artisans, farmers and vintners merely ask, “What took you so long?”

Cheese Tips

Since most of us don’t possess cheese caves, here are a few guidelines to maximizing and maintaining the freshness and flavors of cheese:

• Allow cheese to sit (covered) at room temperature for 30-60 minutes prior to serving.
• Soft fresh cheeses should be kept chilled until serving.
• Wrap cheeses in plastic wrap to maintain freshness.
• Once a cheese has become too hard to eat, grate the remaining piece over a salad or pasta.
• When eating a variety of cheeses, progress from the mildest to the strongest.

Alinea: In City That Thinks Big, Restaurant Makes No Small Plans

Chicago's long been known as a city that takes risks, that makes no small plans as favorite son Daniel Burnham exhorted. So, perhaps it should come as no surprise that the city that spawned the skyscraper should also be home to perhaps the most innovative restaurant in the country, Lincoln Park’s Alinea.

While comparing fine dining to architecture might seem a bit of a stretch, their fundamentals are not dissimilar. If form and function are the bywords of evolved modern architecture, then the same hold true for Chef Grant Achatz’ cuisine. Inspired by the ingredients and food, Achatz creates evolved, progressive dishes, the likes of which most of the world has neither seen nor savored.

Though at first glance Alinea’s food might appear complicated or gimmicky, ultimately the food makes sense. If there are ten ingredients in a dish, each one makes its appearance—if even briefly—as it plays hopscotch across your palate. As with refined, modern architecture that follows the “form follows function” maxim, each ingredient on the plate has a role to play—no item is superfluous.

At first you might think a three-day fast might be in order given the 12-course tasting menu ($125)—or certainly the 24-course tour ($175)—but such precautions are unnecessary. On the day I dined there, I ran eight miles to ensure I would be good and hungry, and left the restaurant feeling plenty satisfied—but not bloated—by the petite, flavor-packed courses.

When dining at Alinea, it’s unlikely you’ll ingest any dish that you’ve had before. While you may have eaten Kobe beef, it’s unlikely you’ve encountered the tender beef layered with honeydew, cucumber, and lime rocks—to name just a few of the accompanying ingredients. Achatz and his team inject a bit of science and unconventional techniques to create powders, purées, aromas and tastes that have placed the restaurant securely on the culinary map.

Course descriptions, like the décor, favor minimalism. For every ingredient listed on the menu, another one or two are revealed when the dish is decorously placed before diners on oversized tables. A lover of aroma, Achatz has gone so far as to have tables stand higher than usual, so diners are that much closer to seeing—and smelling—the food.

Two dishes are as much about smell as taste: the first, a small, dumpling-shaped morsel of lamb, akudjura (an Australian bush tomato) and niçoise olives, lies hidden in a nest of eucalyptus leaves. While the fragrance of the warmed leaves imparts a subtle flavor to the bite-sized course, it also wafts around the table, offering a soothing dose of aromatherapy at the meal’s start.

Arguably, Achatz’ affinity for mastering aroma is best exhibited by a halibut dish that arrives announced by a large linen pillow injected with fragrant orange vapor. Serving as placemat and landing pad, the pillow slowly releases its heady contents, enveloping the table in citrus perfume. Moments later, a large, shallow bowl lands atop the pillow, releasing more orange perfume, while offering a visual feast. Scattered across the plate like a colorful, whimsical Matisse collage, an array of diminutive and colorful morsels including the tender halibut itself, garlic, artichokes, ham, orange puree, green pepper, vanilla, white anchovy and pickled carrots—among others—provide additional aroma and flavor. (Paired with a glass of Beaucastel Châteauneuf-du-Pape that served as perfect complement, this course on its own would render giddy even the most fickle foodie.)

Dishes often feature layers of flavors, one melting into the next, so that each bite and course offers a progression of tastes, textures and sensations. One of my favorites, nicknamed “the tennis ball” for its appearance, consists of a cocoa butter curry ball filled with pear sorbet floating in a shot glass-like vessel filled with celery water. I harbored doubts about the celery water, but found the juice…extract…whatever—to be refreshing, flavorful, and an inspired match for the spicy curry, mild cocoa butter and sweet pear.

Other standouts included a dish of tender chunks of crab with peas, yuzu and lavender that resembled a colorful Japanese wood block print and a finishing course of chocolate accompanied by elderflower and green tea powder. Given the multiple courses, I had a few other favorites, but with a constantly evolving, seasonal menu, these may be replaced or modified tomorrow or in two months.

Boasting one of the city’s acclaimed sommeliers, Joseph Catterson, Alinea offers a well-balanced, extensive wine list, including reasonably-priced options. Justifiably proud of their rare and diverse collection, staff speak knowledgeably and effusively about their wines. Pairings can be customized and run approximately two-thirds the cost of either of the two menus. Rare and ultra-premium bottles are also available.

Having enjoyed Catterson’s inspired picks during his stint at Trio, I again deferred to his expertise. Though my endurance flagged during the last dessert pairing of a syrupy, potent Toro Albalá “Don PX” 1971 Gran Reserva, I managed to enjoy eleven flavorful wines. Some of my favorites included a full-bodied Wieninger Nussberg “Alte Reben” 2003, Albert Mann Pinot Auxerrois 2004, Dal Fari Schioppettino, Colli Orientali Del Friuli 2004, and a Dry Creek Valley Dashe Late Harvest Zinfandel 2005.

Achatz and his team carry their philosophy of freshness and minimalism into the kitchen. Perhaps the most stunning modernist kitchen in America, the Alinea workroom is a piece of art itself, but boasts one solitary refrigerator, since nearly everything served at the restaurant is delivered daily.

Due to its popularity, tables on weekend nights at the restaurant can be hard to come by (there are some poor fools who cancel, so it never hurts to check last minute). Whatever night of the week you visit, reservations are required.

Knowledgeable, efficient staff provide helpful insights into how to approach the food that is served on custom-made tableware which is sometimes unusual and often as original as the food. The three sedate, minimalist dining rooms seem a world away from the hurly burly of the city just outside on Halsted Street.

If this is all sounding a bit stuffy, you can rest assured that all types visit the restaurant’s three dining salons. That said, Alinea is for diners looking to enjoy a novel culinary experience, not for diners looking for traditional upscale restaurant meals consisting of an appetizer, entrée and dessert.

Achatz describes food as “evolving through the generations and taking natural steps forward.” Undoubtedly, as acclaimed by press and foodies around the world, the Chicagoan’s cuisine has further elevated the experience of dining. In the same way that architects Sullivan, Wright and van der Rohe transformed architecture, so has Achatz redefined our approach to fine dining.

If ardor for food and extreme attention to detail sound a little off-putting, Alinea may not be your cup, er plate, of green tea powder. However, if the thought of a dining experience unlike any other featuring dishes that often smack of genius makes your heart beat a little faster (as it did mine), then Alinea is unlikely to disappoint.

1723 North Halsted, Chicago
312-867-0110
info@alinearestaurant.com

The ABC’s of Wine Collecting

It’s no secret that Chicago area residents consume a great quantity of wine, as if Lake Michigan were some North American version of the Mediterranean (albeit with blizzards instead of balmy winter days). With wine super stores and myriad smaller shops sprinkled throughout the area, Chicagoans seem to consume wine as if we’d grown up in Sicily or Provence.

But perhaps there’s something else going on here. Maybe Chicagoans—ever mindful of the joys of food and beverage—are simply discovering the manifold pleasures of the diverse and infinitely pleasure-inducing world of wine.

With Americans on pace to exceed the French as the number one quaffers of vino, Chicagoans are riding the crest of a rising tide of wine drinkers in the U.S. One by one, we’ve discovered the seemingly endless offerings of the world’s unique and arcane offerings, from prosecco and ice wine, to pinot noir and barolo. So perhaps it’s not surprising that we’re pursuing with equal zeal the storied and rewarding pastime of wine collecting.

According to Kevin Mohally of Northbrook’s Knightsbridge Wine Shoppe, wine collecting has nearly doubled in the past few years. More interesting is the diversity of recent collectors. “Quite a few kids coming out of college are now interested in collecting,” Mohally observes. And according to Robert Canales of Mainstreet Wine Shop in Countryside, an established corp of collectors regularly visits his store in Countryside, seeking traditional collecting wines, as well as über-rare selections in which the shop specializes.

According to Mohally and Canales, the reasons for collecting are limitless. A collector sits on an ever-evolving selection of wines which, if diverse, mature at different times. And holders of even smaller wine collections can ceremoniously march out special bottles to commemorate significant occasions (for maximum effect, I recommend blowing some dust off the bottle—a safe distance from the table, of course.)

Canales’ customers routinely purchase wines they intend to uncork on some future date when they celebrate an anniversary, a child’s graduation, retirement, or the birth of a child or grandchild. For hundreds of years, wine drinkers have purchased barrels or cases of Madeira, port or wine which is then presented to children on auspicious birthdays or on their weddings. While this practice continues, today’s collectors are more likely to purchase wine for their own use or to help celebrate some future occasion.

Wine enthusiasts wax ecstatic about their collections, patiently awaiting the uncorking of what will likely be superb bottles of, brunellos, white and red burgundies, riojas, California cabernets, ports, madeiras, rieslings, sauternes and bordeaux—all ideal wines for aging. To figure out which wines to acquire, would-be collectors should assess their tastes, sampling wines and talking to knowledgeable wine staff. Both Canales and Mohally stress that pleasure from wine collecting can only be derived by purchasing what you like—not whatever receives the highest points from Wine Spectator.

But once you begin collecting, how do you know when to drink the wines you’ve assembled? The probable date for maturation can be determined by finding out how long a particular wine typically ages, following advice from cognoscenti at your local wine store, reading wine newsletters and magazines or at www.cellartracker.com. If you’ve bought a case or more, another approach is to sample a bottle each year beginning with the first year the wine might be aged to perfection. This provides the advantage of allowing a collector to taste the wine as its profile develops and matures. And aren’t we all looking for a good excuse to drink a bottle of wine, anyway?

Oak Park resident Stacy Lunardini, 41, started collecting a few years ago when she and husband Marc traded their condominium for a bungalow. Their new house has plenty of storage space, including a cool, dark basement which is currently being renovated to include a basic wine cellar. The couple collects bottles on their travels to Europe and California, but before settling them down for a long nap, Stacy scribbles drinking notes as well as the expected date of maturation on small wire tabs which are then attached to each bottle’s neck.

As with pets, certain wines demand specific care, though the requirements fall infinitely short of those required for say, dogs. When collecting and aging wines, a few guidelines should be considered. Optimally, wines should be stored in a cool, dark area with a temperature range from 58 to 65 degrees and no more than a two-degree fluctuation in a day. An acceptable temperature would range from 65 to 75 degrees, with no more than a four-degree fluctuation in any given day. Subject the wine to a 90 degree day or more than a ten degree temperature difference in a day and the bottle’s contents might at best be slightly compromised and at worst be better suited for cooking.

While wines hardly require one of those labyrinthine, cobweb-draped cellars seen in Masterpiece Theater episodes, they accomplish their best aging when it’s cool, dark and just slightly damp. If some range in temperature is permissible, setting bottles upright is strictly verboten. Rapid oxidization of wine can do considerable damage and by storing bottles on their sides, corks remain in contact with the wine and don’t pull away from the glass, thus admitting just the right amount of oxygen.

For apartment or condo dwellers, a retrofitted cellar might be impossible to pursue—and even if you could, all those wines aging in a shared storage room, perfuming the air with tempting, heady scents, might be asking for trouble.

If you start collecting and find yourself so impassioned with your new-found hobby that you run out of space, most areas offer wine storage facilities—check with your local wine store. For smaller caches, a climate-controlled wine storage chest can be had from specialty food, wine and appliance stores.

If John Stuart Blackie’s assertion that “Wine is the drink of the gods” is true, then collecting wines assures that you’ve always got something on hand to serve even the most exalted of visitors. And if a deity doesn’t arrive, then you can ceremoniously blow the dust off a bottle and serve it to family or friends—or better yet, enjoy it yourself.

I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines.
Oliver Goldsmith

Wine is bottled poetry. Robert Louis Stevenson

Wine is the most civilized thing in the world. Ernest Hemingway

When it comes to wine, I tell people to throw away the vintage charts and invest in a corkscrew. The best way to learn about wine is the drinking. Alexis Lichine

Under the Volcanoes: Exploring Nicaragua

Coming of age in the 80’s, I associated Nicaragua with guerilla fighters, Iran Contra and banana republics. If I dreamed of traveling to Latin America, it was to jungle-thick Costa Rica or Panama’s canal zone, where I imagined I could buy a fine straw hat and catch a glimpse of howler monkeys. A few years ago, though, word began trickling out of the Central American isthmus that Nicaragua, whose name had been virtually absent from Americans’ tongues and minds for 20 years, had a new persona worth checking out.

While we Americans occupied ourselves the last two decades with exploring Europe and the Internet, Nicaragua quietly transformed itself into a peaceful democracy. While it was interesting to see the conversion of a war ravaged country into a peaceful one and to talk to Nicaraguans about their experiences, I discovered other decidedly worthwhile reasons to visit the country: sleepy colonial towns, pristine coral reefs, organic coffee farms, cloud forests, undeveloped beaches, hair-raising canopy tours, and above all—literally and figuratively—volcanoes. Most intriguing, I’d been told that on an ancient island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, you could climb a perfectly conical, storybook volcano and peer into its smoldering crater, and this I had to do. But before climbing the volcano, there were a lot of other places for my friend Terry and me to explore.

Managua: Somnolent Capital

My first impression of the country was molded from the plane window. I wonder where the farms are, the towns and the roads, because from the air, I see only rolling emerald green forest, then cartoon-like, conical volcanoes and finally, the immense, milk chocolate-colored lakes surrounding the capital city, Managua. But where is the city? As we glide into somnolent Managua on a late Sunday afternoon, I’m struck by the lack of traffic and how the empty streets feel so much like the sleepy suburb I grew up in.

The view from the postage stamp-sized—but ultra-modern—airport, offers little different. No traffic jams, little street life. Destroyed during an earthquake, the central downtown was never re-built and even today, the country’s largest and capital city lacks a core—and even skyscrapers (not a bad thing in a country visited by hurricanes, earthquakes and erupting volcanoes).

After a few months of a gray Chicago winter, Managua’s towering, blooming plane trees and swaying palms appear idyllic. The verdant charm of the place, however, soon wore off. After exploring the primitive modernist National Cathedral (the original having been left in ruins after the earthquake of 1972), we high-tailed it to smaller and nearby colonial Leon.

Sleepy Colonial Town Number One: Leon

A few hours’ drive west of Managua sits Leon, a dusty and somewhat dowdy colonial town. Known for its churches and massive cathedral (the largest in Central America), this historic, former capital serves as the intellectual and cultural heart of the country. Because of its liberal university and active community of artists and writers, the town served as fierce battleground during the civil war. However, the only sign of the city’s bloody past are government-sponsored excavations at a few sites around the city and some bullet holes in buildings.

As we pull into town during rush hour, hemmed in by mule-drawn carts, buses and cars, the late afternoon sun burnishes storybook colonial buildings a vivid gold. Nearing the central plaza, our taxi driver—the first of many providing stories to go with the scenery—points out teams of excavators working under the intense sun at scattered sites. Uncovering what? I ask. But our driver never really answers.

We explore Leon, wandering its quiet streets and avoiding an occasional passing automobile, but see only a few other tourists. As far as I can tell, the modern world is a place that exists only in books and magazines; there are few signs of it here.

In an even dustier, quieter quarter of town originally inhabited by Indians, the unusual Church of San Juan Bautista rises from a windswept, packed-earth plaza. Equal parts Spanish Baroque and primitive, the stolid church continues to serve Indian parishioners behind its crumbling façade—which appears untouched since Indian laborers completed the building in the 1700’s.

Leaving the already intense mid-morning sun, I arrive in the cool and breezy shadows of the sanctuary. A caretaker rhythmically mops an already shiny tile floor. Looking heavenward, I see pinpricks of blue sky through the decaying, aged tile ceiling. While the immense wooden beams that hold the church’s roof appear intact, and marvelously carved with traditional Indian designs and characters, the walls and underside of the tile roof appear scant years away from utter disintegration. As far as I know, the 400-year-old church has survived in this condition for at least a few hundred years. I enjoy the immense chamber by myself, with only the sound of a buffeting breeze sweeping through the immense yawning side doors and cracked windows, creating ephemeral clouds of dust that settle on the floor.

At another church off Leon’s main square, unmentioned in my guidebook, I wander the cream-colored interior of this much smaller, purely Baroque temple alone. Plastic and real flowers alternately festoon the aisles, windows and altars, and lace curtains flutter in ghostly fashion. I enter and leave without seeing anyone.

As the tropical heat wanes in the evenings, Nicaraguans open their doors and windows to the street, sipping beer, rum or Coke. We walk the uneven cobblestone streets, catching glimpses of shady courtyards framed by vibrant bougainvilleas, potted palms and splashing fountains.

While Leon appears light years from having a luxury hotel, it does boast El Convento, one of those serene, laidback hotels that haunt your daydreams on hectic days after you’ve returned to the office. Mornings are possibly best at this former convent, when the bougainvilleas turn screaming pink, orange and purple, while manic parakeets and garrulous parrots squawk overhead, occasionally landing in one of the courtyard palms to feed. A steady stream of hummingbirds visits the flowers, or darts toward the fountain for a drink. Middays lull, too, with their quietude and breezes, which sweep through wide, shady corridors and deep loggias, encouraged by a small army of ceiling fans. Finally, in the early evenings, chirping swifts announce the completion of the rapid tropical sunset, taking to the sky above the hotel in flocks that dart, swoop and fall in unison. After sunset we sip local Flor de Caña aged rum (a prize winner in international competitions), sitting in the cavernous lobby serenaded by crickets, the splashing fountain, and the occasional night breeze that whispers through the lobby.

Sunny Days in the Cloud Forest

Rather than endure a crowded van, Terry and I hire a taxi to drive us up the winding, pothole-ridden road toward Matagalpa and the relative coolness of the highlands. As with nearly anyone we meet over the age of 20, our driver has a tale to tell. Having served with the Freedom Fighters, he fled the country for North Carolina after his side lost. A few years ago, he returned with his family and describes the country as peaceful now.

Away from the ocean, the landscape turns brown, parched and dusty. Hulking on the horizon, omnipresent volcanoes. Miles of small farms, dusty villages and vast open spaces fill out the landscape between Leon and Matagalpa. We encounter some of the smallest of this awakening country’s entrepreneurs—children, of grade school age, who patch potholes on the gravel road and gaze expectantly at the occasional passing car or truck, leaning on their small shovels or rakes. Our driver slows, tossing coins which the kids pounce upon before the dust has cleared.

We head for another perfectly shaped volcano, but then skirt it and begin climbing out of the dry, sun-baked lowlands. Already, the air rushing into the car tastes fresher, of moisture, earth, vegetation—and on occasion, sweetly fragrant flowers. As we ascend, the browns and dusty olive-greens of the lowlands give way to massive blooming trees, more colorful bougainvillea, palms and the lush greens of the wetter and cooler highlands. We pass enormous warehouses surrounded by rows of neatly sculpted beds of coffee beans drying in the sun.

Our next stop—one of the most talked-about spots in the country—is the organic coffee farm cum resort run by a German immigrant, Mausi Kühl. While the farm itself serves as a draw, it is Selva Negra’s cloud forest reserve that attracts a steady trickle of tourists to this out of the way spot.

I know we’ve arrived when coffee plants line the mountainsides and a well-maintained road. Beneath the coffee bushes sprout impatiens and bright-blooming hibiscus, their bright flowers contrasting sharply with the deep green surrounding them. Finishing for the day, workers trudge up the neat rows and onto the road, carrying burlap sacks bulging with bright red coffee berries. Giant trees with gnarled and epiphyte-covered limbs twist toward the sky, standing watch over the fields. I know from my reading that further up the mountain, such arboreal splendor is writ even larger.

Nestled under towering trees, petite, Spartan cottages with a decidedly Bavarian feel offer haven from frequent rain showers, bugs and wildlife, including the raccoon-like coatimundi, snakes, wildcats and monkeys. Our Lilliputian, three-room casita sports epiphytes on its red-tiled roof and chirping geckos on the porch. The first night, a downpour pummels the roof and enormous trees above, sending torrents of water, epiphytes and branches onto the roof. At first, I imagine we are experiencing nothing short of a hurricane, but the roof and windows hold, so I eventually fall back to sleep.

Breakfast’s main attraction, not surprisingly, is the dark, rich coffee made from the farm’s coffee beans. Accompanying the fragrant coffee are eggs from the nearby chicken house, sausages made on the premises—and rice and beans, a Nicaraguan staple. An otherwise bland meal—excepting the coffee, of course—is made flavorful by one of the country’s many hot sauces. Within view of the restaurant terrace, the cloud forest begins, and the early morning sounds of howler monkeys, parrots, and parakeets complement the whir of the wings of hummingbirds visiting nearby feeders.

With a seemingly straightforward map in hand, we enter the reserve, avoiding the “Lost Trail” and opting instead for a loop which promises quetzals and howler monkeys. While the outspoken howlers are quickly sighted (they grunt and stare right back), the quetzals prove elusive. By following the occasional trail marker, we find ourselves on a barely discernible trail, scrambling on hands and knees beneath tree roots, through dense vegetation offering barely enough space for passage. Later, at a nature center, I learn about the myriad snakes and poisonous spiders that prefer just such places and shudder. But for the moment, I carelessly shuffle through decaying vegetation and grasp at root and sapling alike, seeking handholds on the steep trail.

Once atop a false summit (doesn’t there always seem to be one more ridge that reveals itself once you’ve reached the presumed mountaintop?), our labors, evidenced by sweat-soaked shirts and mud-stained khakis, seem rewarded. While the morning breezes may have subsided down below, on the ridge they wrestle with tree boughs. Cottony clouds drift pass, grazing towering treetops that seem Disneyesque with their limbs crowded with epiphytes, bromeliads, ferns and even orchids—brightly blooming specimens in preternaturally vibrant shades of pink, orange and red. Warm rays of sun strike us through the trees, and are just as quickly chased away by clouds and a refreshing breeze.

On our return, we see brightly colored trogons, immense strangler figs, parrots, and more howlers, but no sighting of the elusive quetzal with its exquisite, over-the-top plumage. I don’t care, though, as I’m confident I’ve discovered one of the most beautiful spots on Earth and it sits atop a mountain in Nicaragua.

No Movie Stars, No Cocktail Umbrellas: The Nicaraguan Coast

Our small boxy plane (circa 1970?) has hardly descended when I can smell the sea. Our first stop on the Caribbean, Bluefields offers one remarkable experience. Staying in one of but a few fleabag hotels in the town, I sit in an entry courtyard, serenaded by gekkos and swooping swifts, and watch a small crowd gather on the dusty street. A whistle blows, drums throb, and a mass of humanity swarms into the street and begins dancing. More drummers arrive as the last rays of sun strike towering clouds, bathing the street, dancers and thick emerald forests across the nearby inlet in pink and purple light. The street erupts into a raucous party, led by a few women who direct the still-growing body of dancers and drummers with piercing whistle blows and hand signals. Cars back up on the street, but instead of laying on the horn, their drivers sit on hoods or join the street party.

Reachable only via boat or plane, Bluefields sits in strange and splendid isolation. Similarly, our next stop, Little Corn Island, is reached via a quick flight to Big Corn Island, and then a boat ride on rolling seas. In addition to some of the best snorkeling and scuba diving in the world, tiny Corn Island (which can be circumnavigated in a few hours) has the quirky, intimate, Casa Iguana. Photographers from Outside Magazine virtually order me to stay at the hotel. Owned by a couple from the States, the environmentally friendly, laidback cabanas and inn advertise “No movie stars, no cocktail umbrellas, no phones, no TV”. And they mean it.

Its casitas situated on a promontory on the island’s south side, Casa Iguana easily has the best views on the island. Best of all, each rustic casita has its own private, hammock-slung porch—albeit petite—with inspiring views of crashing surf and a sea of an almost ridiculously blue hue. After a morning snorkeling trip (arranged through the certified dive shop on the opposite side of the island) my thoughts returned to the covered, hammock-slung porch on our casita where I would shortly find myself lulled by waves instead of bobbing in them and cooled by a constant trade wind.

As good as the views and the Casa’s Nirvana-esque tranquility are nightly cocktail hours (freshly-blended piña coladas being a specialty) and enchanted dinners. Given the small number of guests (around 20) and the dearth of nearby restaurants, cocktail and dinner hours constitute the day’s main social event. Organized around candle-lit communal tables and fueled by jazz CDs and crashing surf in the background, dinners have a decidedly international flavor—literally and figuratively. Guests hailed from New York City, Vancouver, Germany, Australia and New Zealand. One dinner consisted of amberjack—caught earlier that day off a reef 100 yards distant—covered in a lemon-cream-caper sauce, fried cassavas, carrots sautéed in garlic with caramelized onions and bananas in rum with tasty—if rapidly melting—ice cream. Wind and solar power generators provide clean but limited electricity to the inn (which makes the jazz and ice possible) and meals rely heavily on locally-sourced foods.

Raked clean and hidden in the shadows of giant coconut palms, sand paths meander around the grounds. Rustic casitas are similarly swept clean and have smallish bathrooms with flush toilets and sinks. Air conditioning is provided—and more than adequately during the winter month of my visit—by trade winds which cranked all night through enormous windows overlooking the turquoise sea. While there’s little electricity and no marble bathrooms, rainwater cisterns provide ample water for showers taken in private outdoor wooden stalls.

Though Casa Iguana has a relatively captive clientele, prices for ice-cold local Victoria beers, wine and food is relatively inexpensive. In season, lobster dinners, which can be ordered in the morning, ran $12, Dinner with drinks ran about $15. And with breakfast running about $5 and casitas $35 per day, my share of the daily bill amounted to just over $30—for lodging, more than satisfactory meals twice daily, and evening cocktails.

Sleepy Colonial Town Number Two: Granada

If you tire of towns that haven’t been spiffed up for tourists and are hungering for some Charleston-like charm and somewhere to check your email, then it’s time to head to Granada. Just a few hours from Managua, this small, historic town, its cobblestone streets lined with spectacular colonial buildings and impressive churches, is the first place that I saw tour buses. You’ll want to skip the bus, though, as horse-drawn carriages ply the streets. Still utilized as taxis, the carriages provide cheap, but romantic transportation to virtually anywhere in this small city.

We stay at one of the best hotels in the country, the historic and antique-filled Hotel La Gran Francia. During the day, when not exploring, I swim in the luxe oblong pool tucked into a two-story courtyard of the hotel and wolf down a tasty seafood lunch (grouper in a mango-coconut milk sauce) on the balcony of the hotel restaurant overlooking a quaint intersection. In the evenings, I amble corridors and loggias illuminated by torches and lanterns after eating more tasty seafood at the La Gran Francia’s restaurant, one of the country’s best.

Granada’s plaza, one of the best-preserved in Latin America, serves as a hub for activity at sundown as locals gather in small cafés, stroll, or just watch the golden sun transform the cathedral and other grand buildings into glowing amber monuments. Disorderly and garrulous flocks of parakeets and parrots dart overhead, noisy occupants of palms and jacaranda trees. As in Leon, evening walks provide glimpses of the lush and shady courtyards of colonial houses in the historic town center. Along with tourists, restaurants, sophisticated hotels and tour companies come Internet cafés which allow me to catch up my life back home.

The Outside photographers I encountered also recommended that I take a canopy tour in Granada. The first time I heard of canopy tours during an earlier trip to Costa Rica, I thought they were for bird watchers and nature lovers. In reality, they more closely resemble a roller coaster than a bird watching outing. (Call them Mother Nature’s amusement park rides.) In short, a canopy tour involves gliding (and swinging Tarzan-like on one occasion) between tiny platforms perched atop towering rain forest trees. Gliding over coffee farms or directly through the jungle, I’m provided the perspective of the parrots and monkeys which typically occupy these trees.

Before leaving Granada, we head up the slopes of dormant Volcán Mombacho looming just outside of town, finding blooming orchids tucked next to steam vents that emit strong fumes laced with sulfur. Here vegetation crowds the crater like some hidden Garden of Eden and the volcano is hardly recognizable as such. But I know that at our next stop, a better volcano awaits.

Lost Island of Omotepe

I feel like I’m in a movie, on a boat straight out of African Queen. I’m below deck, with breezes pouring through open windows like the rush of air from fans. The water of Lake Nicaragua is muddy, marked by the occasional clump of seaweed or lily pads. On my right rises another huge conical volcano, and it is to this volcanic island that we’re headed. A thumping, antique engine pushes the old boat across the lake toward ancient islands that bear few traces of former inhabitants, but plenty of signs of wildlife and a relaxed, carefree air that’s further exaggerated by the islands’ remoteness. You can’t get here by train, car or plane—merely the chugging, brightly-painted ferries that bring locals and the occasional tourist to a somnolent island of farmers and little towns sitting in the shadow of two towering volcanoes.

On Ometepe, you cannot escape the presence of the volcanoes. They rise monolithic from the lake floor, standing perpetually shrouded in plumes of steam or puffs of fog. I feel like I’m on the set of Jurassic Park. The soil and volcanic ash, redolent of sweet talcum, mixes with the scent of jasmine and gardenias, giving the entire island a perfumed, Elysian air.

The island—maybe because of the forested slopes of the volcanoes and its location in the middle of a giant lake—has even more parrots and parakeets. Flocks of the rowdy birds, acid-green with yellow, blue and red markings, dart through the sky, alighting in giant trees, before abruptly flitting away. Their calls, squawks and emerald plumage seem as much a fixture of the island’s peaceful mornings and amber-lit evenings as the ever visible, smoldering volcanoes. In the evenings from a villa in the lakeside Hotel Villa Paraiso, the gentle lapping of lake surf on the sandy shore, chirping of gekkos and primeval call of howler monkeys merge with the drone of crickets and humming insects.

My friend and I have sought out this island to hike the steep, but navigable slopes of Volcán Concepción (4430 ft.) in order to peek into its bubbling, primordial crater. Our guide, Jorge, leads us on a dusty path that starts on a gentle incline. We start early to avoid the midday tropical heat, but begin sweating and making water stops after an hour. My thighs burn as my legs attempt to slog through volcanic pebbles. I’m relieved when the path turns to ash, but the gray, sweet-smelling pumice turns out to provide even less reliable footing than the pebbles.

Jorge leads us beneath arching strangler figs and a family of howler monkeys who stare at us with mild interest. “Don’t get too close,” Jorge warns. “They throw feces.”

A few minutes later, after the trail narrows and enters dense forest, our guide recoils from what appears to be a coral snake, seemingly lying in wait next to the path. “Very poisonous,” he informs us in a shaking voice. He locates sticks for each of us, and then attempts to find the snake which has slithered out of sight.

“I hate coral snakes,” he announces. “They kill. Sit by the path and wait for you to come by and then strike.”

My friend Terry is doubtful, but I’m suddenly wondering where the snake has disappeared. Jorge wants to kill the snake, but we’re in a national park, and both Terry and I persuade him to let it live—wherever it is. Jorge reluctantly agrees, but strikes the leaves and brush behind us, only to discover that the snake has circled around and lies at our backs. Is this brightly colored, three-foot long snake stalking us? I experience a creeping chill, and hope I don’t regret my environmentalist’s urge to let the snake live.

The path begins ascending the steep cone of the volcano, and though the vegetation has grown less dense, my eyes are peeled for the bright red and yellow of a coral snake. I even glance behind me a few times, feeling ridiculously paranoid, but unable to resist the impulse. The air becomes cooler, so fresh I need the fleece that Jorge advised me to bring, and fog swirls just above us, cloaking the highest and remaining third of the steep cone of the volcano. We scramble up the cinder path on hands and knees, seeking foot and handholds on roots, stumps and the occasional rock. I’m sweating again, despite the chill, and Terry is completely out of breath. We take rests and water breaks every five minutes, and my legs are trembling visibly.

To this day, I’m unsure whether Jorge realized we would never make it up the last 500 or so feet, or whether he simply didn’t recommend it, but he suddenly shook his head, advising that with the high winds, swirling clouds and mist, it wasn’t safe to continue. After having traveled so far to climb this volcano and peer into its perfectly shaped crater, we were unconvinced. But our fatigue and Jorge’s insistence that it wasn’t safe to continue prevailed—and we were soon headed back down the volcano, knees and legs wobbly from the hike up.

Two days later, I was headed home to Chicago, without ever having peered into the smoldering crater of a volcano. On the plane, I recalled my second night at Selva Negra when the electricity had inexplicably failed for a few hours and I stood in the balmy evening air admiring a star-dappled sky, before heading back to the casita and going to bed by candlelight. Recalling the sound of wind-borne epiphytes and branches striking the tin roof as I drifted off to sleep, I concluded that if Italy’s Florence possesses an embarrassment of man-made riches, then Nicaragua boasts an embarrassment of Nature’s riches. And while I never made it to the lip of a volcano’s crater, I discovered a stunningly beautiful and fascinating country that is just as busy re-discovering itself.

Information:
Selva Negra, 11-505-772-3883, email: resortinfo@selvanegra.com
El Convento, www.hotelelconvento.com.ni/english/
Email: informacion@hotelelconvento.com.ni
Casa Iguana, www.casaiguana.net, email: casaiguana@mindspring.com
Hotel La Gran Francia (& restaurant), 505-552-6000, www.lagranfrancia.com